


No Sugar Tonight in My Coffee

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coffeeshop AU, Fluffy, M/M, Mishaps, Pre-Slash Levels, Silly, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 02:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7414912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Good communication is as stimulating as black coffee, and just as hard."--Anne Spencer</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Len just wants a large, black coffee, is that too much to ask?</p><p>(Or, Mick is the pain-in-the-ass barista that never gets Len's coffee order right, for reasons.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Sugar Tonight in My Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> i've decided that coldwave is severely lacking in classic aus/tropes, and one of those is coffeeshop au. so HERE. have a coffeeshop au that technically fits into canon as we know it lmao
> 
> thanks to believesinponds for betaing! 
> 
> enjoy!

“A large black coffee,” Len snaps as he tosses a handful of dollar bills onto the counter. He doesn’t look the man behind the register in the eyes, doesn’t even bother looking up from his notebook full of heist plans. He just moves to the end where a platform for drinks is set up with all the necessary items to doctor up drinks as customers like. Len chews his lip absentmindedly as he waits, making mental notes of things to add and change and take away.

“Large black coffee,” a gruff voice calls out only a few moments later. Len looks up, finally, and nods in a brief thanks before reaching out and taking his drink from the counter. He ignores the containers of cream, sugar, milk, and whatever else is set up—black coffee is all he needs or wants this early in the morning. The sharp, bitter taste keeps him focused and even-keeled as he plans.

He’s halfway back to the safehouse before he realizes what he’s drinking is definitely _not_ black coffee, and instead tastes a fuck of a lot like a caramel macchiato, still bitter but also sweet and creamy. Len stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk and stares at his cup as though he’s been betrayed. After a moment, Len looks over his shoulder in the direction of the coffee shop and glares. He’s glad he only left a little extra for a tip. If the same guy is working next time Len goes in—if there even is a next time—Len _definitely_ isn’t going to leave any sort of a tip.

Retroactive revenge, or something like that.

-

“A large black coffee,” Len says again, maybe a bit too loud and harsh given that it’s nearly dead silent in the shop this hour of the morning. He levels the man behind the counter with a glare and a raised eyebrow, daring him without speaking to try and give him a different drink this time. Len doesn’t move from the register immediately, and waits.

“That’ll be a buck seventy-five.” It’s a grunt in the same low voice from before.

Len makes a show of digging a dollar and three quarters out of his wallet and dropping them in the man’s hand, ignoring the tip jar entirely. Len pretends it’s a victory even when the guy doesn’t look all that put out over it.

Len taps his foot impatiently as he waits, and keeps his eyes trained on the barista as though that’ll help matters. It’s not as though Len could leap over the counter if the guy picks up some flavoring or cream. It makes Len feel better, though, to watch as his drink is prepared. He’s well-practiced in slight-of-hand maneuvers, and feels confident that he’ll catch anything the guy might try to slip into his drink.

Len’s lips curl in a smug grin as he accepts the drink he watched being made. “Thanks,” he says.

The guy grunts and waves him off.

Once he’s outside the shop, Len brings the drink to his lips and can feel the heat radiating out of the cup. He pauses and settles for inhaling the aroma of coffee—nothing sweet like caramel or vanilla or anything else catches his attention, so Len smirks to himself. He sets off in the direction of the safehouse again, figuring his drink will have cooled down sufficiently by then.

 

(It has, but as he takes a sip he realizes he’s been duped again. For the life of him, Len can’t say _how_ , but the barista managed to slip in two shots of toddy and a dash of cream. It’s delicious, but also not what Len ordered, and it’s the principle of the thing.)

-

The next time Len goes in, he’s surprised to see a slight line ahead of him. It’s the same time in the morning as the past few trips he’s made, but for whatever reason this particular morning has inspired a handful of other people to stop by as well. Len gets into line obediently and takes a quick look at the handwritten menu that hangs over the register. It’s a row of several chalkboards that each have a different kind of list on them—hot drinks, cold drinks, sweet, bitter, prices tagged beside each item—and it’s written in sharp and artfully jaunty penmanship.

“Next,” the same heavy voice from before calls out. Len watches as the man takes the orders quick and easy, money exchanging hands in the blink of an eye as he passes cup after cup to whoever is working with him. Len watches the other person with interest, realizing that if the usual barista is stuck at the register then he won’t have the opportunity to muck up Len’s drink _again_.

“What d’ya want?” The man asks as Len finally steps up to the counter. Despite the question, he’s got a large paper cup in hand, pen poised to scrawl, and Len can see the beginnings of _‘black coffee’_ on the side.

“Large black coffee,” Len says, even though it’s predictable. He’s a creature of habit, so sue him.

The guy rolls his eyes just a little before nodding. He even underlines the words on the side of the cup as though to emphasize the importance of _just_ black coffee, before handing the cup over as well. He taps at the register once his hands are free.

“Buck seventy-five,” he says.

Len passes it over and sticks a stray dollar into the tip jar with a cheeky smile. He moves out of the way and waits, the routine familiar to him and comfortable even as he feels slightly paranoid about his drink. Realistically, he knows that he’ll end up with what he ordered. But, then again, Len had thought that the last time he’d come in and he’d been wrong.

When a much softer voice calls out, “large black coffee,” Len steps up to take it. He brings it to his lips immediately and ignores the heat coming off the drink in waves. He locks eyes with the barista at the register, even though it clearly stops him from taking more orders. Len doesn’t look away as he takes a sip of his drink, smirking around the lid of the cup as the refreshing taste of hazelnut and honey and bitter coffee slips down his throat.

Len stops short and his smug stare morphs into a downright glare. The man at the register cracks up and his whole face goes bright with delight. He returns to taking orders in an instant, leaving Len to his coffee yet again. Len contemplates storming up to counter and demanding a refund or a new drink. But as more people filter in like early morning zombies, Len decides to cut his losses for the time being.

Maybe he’ll look into a different coffee shop to start going to.

-

“Surprised to see you back.”

Len scowls at the barista and doesn’t dignify him with an answer.

“The usual?”

In lieu of speaking, Len slaps a dollar and three quarters onto the counter and stalks away from the register. He doesn’t care if he looks petulant or childish, it’s been a shitty morning preceded by and even shittier night and he’s not in the mood. Not to mention that there _isn’t_ any other coffee shop within walking or even driving distance of the safehouse, so he’s stuck coming here unless he really wants to waste the time stealing a new coffee pot.

(It is remarkably difficult to steal from large department stores, Len has learned, and Lisa swears that getting out of the house now and then is doing him good.)

Len waits, groggy and exhausted and irritated beyond belief, and is surprised to see his drink up and ready quicker than usual. He looks at the barista over the counter warily. A moment of silence passes before the barista slides a scone to sit beside the drink, before stepping back and turning to do something else.

Len stares at the drink for a long while before reaching for it. He brings it to his lips cautiously and sips slowly, and nearly moans in relief when nothing but the stark, bitter taste of plain black coffee hits his tongue. He gulps at the drink, ignoring the way it scalds a bit, until it’s almost half gone. Once he’s sated and feeling a little less haggard, his gaze drops to the scone.

“I didn’t pay for that,” he says, loud enough to catch the barista’s attention. “I didn’t order that, so I’m not _going_ to pay for that.”

“S’on the house,” the guy eventually grunts in response. He never looks up from his task.

Len looks back to the scone and in his head he calculates the odds of it being poisoned. It looks safe—not that that means much—and, admittedly, looks pretty damn tasty. Len has never been one for scones, always finds them too dry and bland, but this one look soft with a delicate dusting of powdered sugar.

“If you want, I got some with fruit in ‘em.”

Len looks up to realize the barista is standing at the counter again.

“What’s your name?” Len asks instead.

“Michael. But most people call me Mick.”

Len nods slowly. Another awkward beat of silence passes. “What kind of fruit is in the scones?” He asks, slowly.

Mick answers promptly. “Blueberry, raspberry, blackberry, orange, and cherry.”

Len blinks owlishly, gaze flicking between Mick and the scone already presented. “This one is fine. For today.” And Len knows as he speaks he’s basically giving permission for this guy, for _Mick_ to keep giving him food. He grabs the scone and the napkin it’s wrapped in and hurries out of the shop without another word.

(When he’s back at the house and biting into the scone itself, he finds he doesn’t so much mind the idea that he’ll be getting more free treats in his future. The scone is _divine_ , and he devours it embarrassingly quick. Lisa may or may not catch him licking powdered sugar off his fingertips.)

-

“Haven’t seen you round here in a while.”

Len blinks, brain moving sluggishly. It’d been a long, if successful night, and before that it had been several weeks of intense planning. He’d hardly left the house (actually, had he left the house? He can’t recall) to ensure all his plans were just right. In the end, he and Lisa had completed the job with two minutes to spare, which is an eternity in their line of work. Now, he’s just dead on his feet.

Len looks up when he realizes he hasn’t spoken at all and is startled to see that a large cup and a scone in a paper bag are already in front of him. When he reaches for his wallet, Mick waves him off.

“On the house.”

Len furrows his brow but decides that, for now, he’s too tired to deal with that and just nods his head in thanks instead. He turns without speaking and hurries his way back to the safehouse.

He doesn’t even balk when he sips his coffee and tastes the distinct notes of rum mingling with a dark chocolate-cherry roast. Rather, he revels in the early morning treat of alcohol, and lets himself drift to sleep on the couch once both the scone and coffee are finished.

-

After fifteen visits straight of ordering a large black coffee and getting something else in response, Len finally drags Lisa along to see if that can change anything. She refuses to wake at the ass crack of dawn like Len does, so they end up making it a mid-morning trip instead, and Len is again surprised to see a few people sitting scattered at the tables in the shop. There’s no line, though, which is nice.

“Large black coffee, and…” Mick speaks before Len can, and his gaze lands on Lisa with something akin to scrutiny.

Len watches Mick watching Lisa. There’s no gleam in Mick’s eyes that most guys have—the spark in their pupil that sees Lisa as a challenge to be conquered rather than a queen to be feared. After a moment of intense silence between the two, both Mick and Lisa break out into grins and Mick’s eyes relax with something that looks like fondness and respect.

“Medium white chocolate Americano,” Lisa answers eventually.

Mick finishes their drinks quickly, and Lisa coerces Len into sitting at one of the free tables tucked into a corner of the shop. Len watches as Lisa sips at her drink and smiles, pleased. “Exactly what I ordered, Lenny, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Len holds up a finger. “Take a sip,” he instructs as he scoots his drink across the table.

Lisa wrinkles her nose in distaste but Len quells it with a pointed stare. She glares at him as she raises the cup to her lips and takes a long sip. When she finally sets the cup down, her red lipstick has stained the rim of the lid and she’s starting to crack up with laughter. “That’s not black coffee.”

“No, it’s not. It _never_ is.” Len takes his drink back all the same and wipes away the remnants of Lisa’s lipstick. He drinks it, and tells himself it’s because it’s already bought and paid for and not because he actually enjoys the semi-sweet concoction Mick has cooked up this time.

-

After three consecutive weeks of Mick refusing payment for coffee and various baked treats (usually scones, but sometimes the cookies in the display case speak to Len, and on one occasion a decadent looking cupcake seems to call his name), Len decides enough is enough. Time for something drastic. For as annoying as it is to never get what he orders, Len appreciates small businesses and it isn’t as though the coffee he does get is bad by any means.

That’s how he finds himself breaking once a week and filling the register till with enough money to take care of his drinks for the week that’ll follow.

From the way Mick eyes him every morning, Len knows _Mick_ knows why there’s an extra bundle of bills in the till when he opens up shop every morning.

Lisa, when she finds out one chilly evening as she catches him sneaking out, laughs until she cries and calls him the worst thief in existence.

-

By now, even when Len orders something that _isn’t_ black coffee, Mick will give him something different. If Len orders a macchiato, he gets a mocha. He orders a mocha, he gets an Americano instead. At one point he ordered the sweetest, most sugar-laden drink he could think of, and Mick gave him _tea_ instead. Granted, Len was thankful for the smooth taste of chai tea over the caramel-hazelnut-mocha-cream-monstrosity he’d ordered on a whim, but again. It’s the principle of the thing.

At one point, Len drags Lisa along again to see if they can pull one over on Mick.

“Why are we doing this?” Lisa asks when they’re about twenty feet off from the front door of the coffee shop.

“Because, it’s the principle of the matter! Where does he get off ignoring what I order?” Len snaps back as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “And you’ve seen, he _only_ does it to _me_. Not any other customers, not _you_. Just me.”

Lisa’s grinning and Len pretends not to notice. “So, what, we’re going to switch drinks after we order and see if we can trick him?”

It’s childish and ridiculous and absolutely obnoxious, but yes. That’s exactly what they’re going to do.

 

Mick doesn’t bat an eye at their orders. Not at Lisa’s request for a basic caramel macchiato and not at Len’s request for a mocha. Lisa grabs them a seat while Len waits for their drinks to finish. As he sits he slides the cup marked _‘mocha’_ over to Lisa and brings the one marked _‘macchiato’_ to his own lips. He can’t help his smirk as he curls his lips around the lid of his drink, tilting it back to sip.

Lisa laughs so hard mocha nearly comes out her nose as Len scowls at his drink—his drink that is very much _not_ a macchiato of any sort and is actually a plain, no-frills, black coffee.

-

The first time Len walks in and Mick isn’t at the counter, Len very nearly turns on his heel and leaves. It’s a silly reason to leave, the coffee and food and prices are good, but Len can admit (to himself, and to Lisa) that a large part of the reason he keeps coming back is because of Mick. He likes Mick, even if he can’t get Len’s coffee order right, _ever_.

“Hey,” Mick’s voice startles Len out of his contemplating. Mick isn’t behind the counter, but the usual apron is still wrapped around his form and he looks damp with sweat. “Sorry, was in the back cooking up some fresh goods.”

Len blinks. “Why are you apologizing?”

Mick grins like he knows something Len doesn’t. “Usual order today?”

Len had come in here with the intent to ask Mick _why_ he’s doing this, but Mick is wearing a tank top and jeans under the apron and his biceps are distracting. Len just nods, tongue heavy in his mouth, and doesn’t bother reaching for his wallet.

 

Later, when Lisa comes home, Len confesses that he may, potentially, possibly, be attracted to Mick.

Lisa smacks him in the back of the head and says, _“duh.”_

Her input is superbly unhelpful, Len decides.

-

The next time Len goes in, Mick is again absent from the register. There are two people Len has never seen behind the counter before and something like anxiety sets off in Len’s gut. He still orders his drink and tries to ignore the sense of disappointment that hits him when he does in fact get just plain black coffee for his troubles.

Rather than leaving, though, he takes his usual seat at the corner table. He settles in and tells himself he’s not hoping to catch a glimpse of Mick before he absolutely has to leave. Instead, Len tells himself it’s a nice day out and he’s been cooped up too long and it’s good to get out of the house.

Len is mostly absorbed in his phone and his coffee is mostly gone when Mick takes the seat across from him.

“Sorry,” Mick says again.

Len just shrugs. He tucks his phone into the pocket of his jacket. “Why are you doing this?”

Mick immediately dissolves into laughter. Len waits, not so patiently, until the snickering subsides. “Can’t believe it’s taken you nearly nine fuckin’ months to ask me that, Snart.”

Len freezes. He’s _never_ once told Mick his name. He’s not in the habit of giving out names to strangers, especially not his real name. He narrows his eyes at Mick and his lips twist into a sneer. “What do you want?”

Mick seems to sober up immediately. “Hey, chill out, Lenny.”

“No one calls me Lenny.”

“No one ‘cept Lisa, that’s what you always used to say.”

Len freezes again, but less in fear or anger and more in plain shock. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He grips the edge of the table as a mixture of terror and confusion flood through him. He hasn’t seen his father in years and Mick doesn’t look old enough to be buddy-buddy with Lewis, but it’s the first thought Len’s mind goes to. How else would Mick know who he and Lisa are?

“Hey, woah,” Mick reaches out and Len just barely flinches away from the gesture. Mick doesn’t pull back, though, he reaches forward until his hand claps onto Len’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “Don’t freak out on me, Snart.”

“What else do you suggest I do, then?” Len asks in a shaky drawl. He’s spent years hiding from his father, spent years keeping Lisa safe. The flight aspect of fight-or-flight starts to kick in and Len begins to calculate how much force it would take to knock Mick down and take off running.

“You look exactly the same,” the curl of Mick’s lips is far too fond, but fond is better than malicious. “Y’really telling me you don’t remember me, Lenny?”

Len tries to catch his breath and stop the whirling thoughts in his head. “No,” he answers slowly. “Should I?”

Mick looks sheepish then, suddenly. “I dunno, always kinda wondered if you’d forgotten about me or not…” Mick trails off with a wistful note in his voice. “Uh,” he seems to come back to himself. “Central City Juvenile Detention Center.”

And just like that, Len gets it. Honestly, in that moment, he wonders how he could have ever forgotten _Mick Rory_ of all people.

-

_“Sure got a mouth on you, kid.”_

_Leo sneers and puffs his chest out to mimic the older boy in front of him. In the back of his mind he knows the posturing is absurd, given that the kid in front of him just took out three other boys threatening Leo, but instinct tells him to keep up the act. “I didn’t ask you to step in.”_

_“You telling me you’d rather get shiv’d than have someone on your side?”_

_Len’s mouth snaps shut with a click. “I call the shots,” he demands. “I’m Leo Snart.”_

_The older kid laughs. “Leo? What’s that short for?”_

_“Leonard,” he answers after a moment._

_A scoff, “Nah, I ain’t calling you Leo, no fourteen-year-old is a **Leo**.” He laughs. “M’gonna call you Lenny.”_

_“No one calls me that but my sister.”_

_The kid raises an eyebrow, then shrugs. “Alright. Len, if that’s alright with you, boss.”_

_A thrill runs through Leo— **Len** —at the word ‘boss’ but he doesn’t let it show. “What do I call you?”_

_“Y’can call me Mick.” Mick sticks out a hand that’s covered in small burn scars._

_Len extends his own hand—scrawny, bony, miniscule compared to Mick’s—and shakes firm. “You’ll follow my lead?”_

_Mick just grins._

-

“Earth to Lenny,” Mick says as he waves a hand in front of Len’s face. “Did I break you? You still with me?”

Len glares but can’t help the pleased purse of his lips. “I did always wonder what happened to you, Rory.”

Mick’s face shifts from faintly concerned to pleased. It’s the same smile Len remembers from all those years ago on sixteen-years-young Mick’s face. His teeth are straighter and instead of wispy patches of facial hair there’s a solid layer of scruff defining his jaw. Just like Len isn’t the scrawny twig he was back in the day, Mick isn’t baby-faced anymore either. Where Len has grown into his long and lean form, Mick has grown into his bulk and fills out his form nicely.

“Never stopped thinking about you, y’know.”

Len’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What.”

Mick, again, looks embarrassed. “Don’t think you ever knew what you did to me in that stupid place.” Mick sits back and scrubs a hand over his face. He laughs, more to himself than anything. “You were like this fuckin’ ray of sunshine in a giant pile of shit.”

“You always were quite the poet.”

Mick winks at Len despite the faint pink of his cheeks. “You came in like you owned the damn place from day one, even when those three dumbasses were trying to take you down that first night.”

Len smiles.

“You just stuck in my head, Lenny,” Mick admits. “You were the only one who didn’t think I was stupid, you know that? You were the only one who…” Mick trails off again.

“So, you’ve been carrying a torch for me for, what, ten years now?” Len asks as his heart hammers in his chest.

Mick barks out a laugh. “Pretty much, yeah.” He’s blushing lightly but he’s not ashamed. He grins at Len like a challenge and an invitation. “Never met anyone quite like you, Lenny.”

Len ducks his head and fiddles with his mostly empty cup.

“M’not asking for anything, Len, ‘cept maybe for you to stick around.”

Len doesn’t look up. “You know what I do?” He asks.

Mick snorts, a derisive but not unkind laugh. “You kidding me? I’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to know all about what Leonard Snart’s been up to. You think this little schtick is all I got?” Mick laughs in a loud and open way that draws some stares. “Who d’you think set the Darbinyan’s hideout on fire, over on Second and Jameson?”

A laugh bubbles out of Len suddenly. “Why am I not surprised?”

Mick preens.

The tension finally fades between them and Len relaxes. “Lisa and I will need to move soon,” he says quietly. It hurts to say it, no matter how true it is. He’s liked coming in nearly every day for the past several months. He’s enjoyed dealing with Mick’s absurdity, even more so now that he knows the real reason behind it. It feels cruel to let Mick think he and Lisa and will be around forever.

Mick doesn’t seem upset, though. “Alright.” He shrugs. “Where you going?”

Len eyes him suspiciously. “Moving out of town for a couple months until the heat of the last job dies down.”

Mick nods in understanding. “What wouldya say if I asked to tag along?”

Len’s eyes widen. “Isn’t this,” he gestures to the shop around them, “ _yours_?”

“Sure, but I got a kid I can pass it along to.” Mick shrugs. “He’s a good kid, he’ll take care of it.”

Len blinks. He opens his mouth and shuts it again with a click.

Mick waits him out.

“You’ll follow my lead?” Len asks.

Mick just grins.


End file.
